The Work Ethic of my Father

Wed, 10/24/2018 - 18:57 -- JaineF

In his arms are copper mines,

The pulse they work his drums.

Digging up unearthly, glittering, dashing multitudes

Common men, molded, stamp mere dimes

Yet it lingers within eyes that see

Evinces a tic or spastic twitch of fury.

For all glance in bravado at the sun

Yet turn, clutching shame

--A human conundrum


But the music of hard hats tumbling

Will never sound at day’s end


The beat that keeps on thrumming, thrumming, thrumming

Pulsing in increasing depth

Makes way to shelter,

Tunnels mountain passes called home,

In daily thoughts, it's wary, but

Moves its arms without caring, production relentless

and Enduring until dead




This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741